


The Standing Rigging

by Arithanas



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Memories, Murder, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the murder of Alfred Hamilton was agreed on and the part Thomas Hamilton played on it</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Standing Rigging

**Author's Note:**

  * For [matchsticks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchsticks/gifts).



The paper shook in Miranda’s hand, and she had to sit by the window as she perused the crude handwriting of her former maid once more. Her heart pounded in her chest, and the weight of her dress seemed to triple. The news was unexpected, but at the same time stimulating. She needed several readings to soak up the implications and the possibilities of such a missive. Finally, Miranda folded the letter in a neat square, feeling gratitude wash over her.

After years of praying for a way to exact revenge, destiny had served it to her on a silver plate. The name was there in black on white: _Maria Aleyne_. To discover the ship’s course and destination would be no problem for a determined man. Of course, the entire plan hinged on James’ willingness to hunt Alfred Hamilton and end his despicable life once and for all.

Miranda brought the letter to her chest and closed her eyes. A couple of deep breaths helped her to control her emotions and focus on the task at hand. Behind her closed eyes she could see Thomas again, looking through papers and smiling faintly. Miranda felt the weight of his eyes on her, and that was a warming memory, even warmer than the tropical sun of the Bahamas. Thomas and his hands and his golden hair and his gentle eyes had been her world. To think of such a tender disposition crushed under the absurdity of a punishment dispensed at the whim of a fiend with a misguided sense of dignity!

James and Miranda were safe and sound, breathing the air of the New World, but that didn’t help their quotidian hell. Alfred Hamilton killed them that night; the two of them still drew breath, but they couldn’t brag about having a life worth living.

Out of the blue, her skin felt the ghost of Thomas' touch, his hand petting her hair and kissing the back of her head, and Miranda cried her eyes out, under the tropical sun.

* * *

James came to her house late at night, as usual, his head covered in dust, his boots caked with mud, his whole body shrouded in weariness. Miranda could see that, no matter how many raids he survived or how many hauls could he profit from, the plundering and violence were digging a great void into his soul. James, like Thomas, was not made for senseless violence. Nevertheless, Miranda dared not to comment, and announced she was brewing tea for supper.

The long coat was hung on its usual peg, the man sat in his favorite chair, and food was served in the same bowls. All was as domestic and peaceful as any puritan lady would like. They exchanged sad smiles and dined unhurriedly. James needed a good haircut; Miranda’s dress was a bit frayed at the hem. Neither of them uttered a complaint. Material comfort was low on their list of priorities.

James extended his hand and took Miranda’s, as if he were trying to reassure her that his spirit was willing to carry on with the mayhem as long as their revenge demanded. He had noticed the hint of uncertainty in Miranda’s bearing.

He had asked no question, but Miranda provided a reply by taking the folded paper and handing it to James. With bated breath, she observed how his eyes followed the lines and how his mustache trembled with the effort to conceal his anger. The news was not received as she expected, but she mustered her patience as he read the letter again, and then rose from his chair to pace beside the table. His wet boots made an annoying creaking sound. Salt and mud were unforgiving on the leather. Miranda noticed the tan on James’ neck, where the shirt couldn’t shield him from the sun. It was a most disrupting sight at the most inconvenient time, for Miranda always was attracted to the signs of the hazardous life he didn’t want to share with her.

“Why is he coming to the New World?”

That was a practical question, a necessary question, but Miranda was not in a sensible mood. Blood rushed to her temples at the first word. James must not deny them this chance to exact a rightful compensation for all the vexations they had endured under Alfred Hamilton’s hounding!

“God is sending him to us,” Miranda said with conviction, rising from her chair, “so we can avenge what he did to Thomas!”

The idea stunned James, as if it were the first time he had contemplated the idea of swift retaliation.

“This is not what Thomas would have wanted…”

His voice went huskier when he uttered that sentence, and Miranda knew James had suppressed a sob. The hurt was still unbearable for both of them. But vengeance was a cruel mistress. Those who wield the sword of revenge risk being cut deeply, even deeper than those whom they strike .

“How could you know?”

James took a deep breath to bury the words inside his mouth. His fist clenched, and he almost cuffed her with all his might. Only a supreme effort of will, and his love for her, stopped his hand. Then he thought of Thomas, and that completely dispelled his urge to react with violence.

Miranda couldn’t keep her body from being drawn to him, and she raised her hands in an effort to cup his face. The words to assuage his revulsion and mollify his doubts began to form in her mouth, but before she could give voice to them, James stomped hard enough to crumble off the mud that caked his dirty boots. Miranda had heard that imperious sound before, in the harbor, when he was about to pour out his anger over the motley crew under his rule.

“Don’t.”

The word was a definite command, and Miranda obeyed.

Her meekness didn’t assuage his outrage. How dare Miranda try to use Thomas as leverage? Before she could add another argument for her cause —God knows there were more arguments she hadn’t uttered yet— James turned around and walked to the door.

Miranda let him go and started to clear the table as if nothing had happened. In her heart, though, she began to quietly fret. Running away was not part of James’ nature. She could feel this matter driving a wedge between them.

* * *

James sat outside, under the broad leaves of the big banana tree thatgrew at the fringe of the property, outside the orchard. He was not in full command of his rage. His first impulse was to ride to Nassau, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave Miranda alone. He owed so much to Thomas’ charity, those quiet afternoons of gentle love which dispelled the unfathomable loneliness of this unforgiving world, and he was duty-bound to guarantee his wife’s safety.

Miranda was... challenging sometimes. In all honesty, there were times when James would have gladly stranded her on some lonesome island, but her zest and passion were part of the charm that had made him fall in love when they first met. James smiled and closed his eyes; his ears still heard the words Thomas used to describe his wife. There was love in his words, his tone was a caress, but James never felt the sting of jealousy. Miranda made Thomas happy. James couldn’t ask for more.

Keeping Thomas’ wife safe was the first priority, but just behind it was keeping her happy; James hesitated to call cold-blooded murder a source of happiness, but the tranquility it would bring her was evident.

James passed his hand over his hot head. Thomas had ransomed him from the void of his life. Thomas had given him life and purpose, more than his parents had ever given him; yet chasing Thomas’ father and killing him in cold blood was not something James was willing to do.

James couldn’t honor such a demand, not even in Thomas’ name.

His mind raced, searching for all possibilities, looking for a way to make Alfred Hamilton pay for what he'd done without having his blood on his own hands. Kidnapping him was out of the question. There was no safe space to keep him in, and the goddamned man had too much influence to make him disappear without consequences. What kind of profit could they expect if they chased him and beat him within an inch of his worthless life?

The fact of killing a man was not what deterred James. Killing a man was easy at this point in the game. The choreography was simple: a flick of the wrist, a pull from the arm, a twist of the waist. Life could be snuffed so effortlessly, but to what end?

Nothing could return Thomas to them, and that gratuitous act of violence would not further their efforts to bring his legacy to completion.

James hung his head in defeat.

He heaved a sigh, just because that was a certain way to force his body to remember the weight of Thomas’ hands on his shoulders. That touch meant safety and understanding, and he craved both profoundly at the moment.

James felt his fists clenching as his mind recalled the horrible details, the pitiful way Thomas had spent his last days. They had better things to do with their time and resources. A death would not pay for Thomas’ suffering. A life of pain and shame would barely be a beginning.

One less monster in this world…

* * *

The door cracked open in the middle of the night.

Miranda wasn't startled, since there was only one person who would dare to set foot in her house. James was impressed by her cold-bloodedness. The single chair, placed directly in view of the entrance; the mere three candles alight behind her head, obscuring her complexion; the folded hands on her lap. All these hid mood. The scene had clearly been carefully planned to let him know she hadn't changed her mind. He walked toward her with the same calm and rhythmic step he used on the ship.

“James.” She said his name with complete composure. There was no regret. Or if there was any, her voice didn’t show it.

“Tomorrow,” James promised and extended his hands. “We will hunt him tomorrow.”

Miranda clung to James in a paroxysm of gratitude, and James closed his eyes. He did not lift his arms to return her embrace. Once more, James was the vessel of their hurt, and Miranda was the wind that moved him forward. In the silence of the night, held between her arms, he wondered how much more the standing rigging could bear.


End file.
